


The Rose That Grew From A Crack In The Concrete

by emma91011



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bachelor AU, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Porn With Plot, Slow Burn, Stydia, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:05:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9371396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma91011/pseuds/emma91011
Summary: Stiles Stilinski is 28 years old and tired of trying to find a girl to settle down with when they all end up screwing him over anyways. After being dumped by his fiancee when she falls in love with his best friend, Stiles decides to go on The Bachelor.Lydia Martin is sick of seeing trashy girls waltz around and lead on boy after boy on the stupid show she produces. However, when Stiles Stilinski walks onto set, she really could care less if he gets hurt or not. And whatever, she doesn't let work affect her personal life.It all changes though when she sees him crying after the first week. The two form a friendship, but is that where the feelings end?Stydia Bachelor!AU.





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, so I just started watching The Bachelor and was inspired to write this. I was thinking that most of the relationships are fake to begin with so why not make one real.. but off screen. Enjoy!
> 
> All characters belong to Teen Wolf (MTV) and ideas to The Bachelor (ABC).

If there was one thing Lydia Martin hates, it's lateness. From the ripe age of twelve, Lydia decided she was never going to be late. In fact, she road her bike to school every morning to school forty-five minutes early. Lydia supposes she can credit some of it to her dad being late every other weekend. But, whatever the reason, Lydia hated being late. Or, in this case, someone else being late. 

The clock ticks to 10:43 and Lydia feels herself growing impatient. Turning to the executive producer of the show, Scott, Lydia purses her lips and raises and eyebrow. "Well, if this kid can't even show up on time, it's clear we should go with the other contestant," Lydia said in an annoyed tone. 

Smiling, Scott leaned back into his chair and put his hands behind his head. "Lydia, we're waiting until 11. A half hour leeway isn't that bad, especially with all the traffic. You know how LA traffic is." Rolling her eyes, Lydia turned back to the door. Her eyes flitted to the clock. 11:45. 

“God, men are always late,” Lydia thought to herself. That’s one reason she hated this stupid show. It all revolved around the men. Like everything in her damn life, of course. But, the money was nice and the success from the show was more than enough to compensate. 

At 10:48 exactly, flailing limbs and spiked brown hair flew through the door. The converse soles squeaked against the linoleum floor. “Sorry, sorry! I- there was traffic. Sorry!” the boy exclaimed. 

“We said 10:30,” Lydia snapped.

Scott let out a nervous laugh, cutting in. “But we understand So, Stiles? That’s your real name?” 

Scratching his head, the boy smiled awkwardly. “Yeah, ha. Um, my real name is a little hard to spell and pronounce, so I go by my nickname. Stiles, short for Stilinski. Stiles Stilinksi,” he rambled on. 

Lydia could feel herself getting annoyed with this boy. But, she knew America would love him and his awkwardness. It was, what girls would call ‘adorkable.’ One glance at Scott, Lydia knew he would choose this guy. 

“So, Stiles, let’s cut to the chase. Why be on the bachelor? You’re not awfully ugly, so why a TV show?” Lydia asked bluntly, pushing her curled, red hair behind her ears, pencil ready to write.

Blinking in surprise, Stiles brows furrowed in frustration. “Oh! Well, it’s kind of personal.” 

Scoffing, Lydia gave Scott a pointed look. “Honey, your whole personal life is about to be on TV. So, if you want a chance on this show, you better get ready to share personal stories and preferences,” she said.

Nodding and biting his lip, Stiles took a step towards the chair, motioning to it. “Take a seat,” Scott said, waving his hand nonchalantly. 

As he sat down, Stiles leaned forward, hands clasped together. “Okay. Well, I was engaged, as you probably saw on my application. Her name was Malia. I, uh, I really loved her. Like she was maybe the best woman I had ever met. But, then, she had sex with my best friend, Isaac. I get it! They have a lot in common and a lot of chemistry, but it still hurt like a bitch.”

“Wait, you forgive them?” Lydia asked, her face screwed up in confusion. Searching Stiles eyes for any hint he was saying it just to be a good guy, all Lydia could find was genuine compassion and forgiveness.

“Yeah.” The room went silent. 

Scott turned to Lydia, tapping his pen on his paper. In his messy handwriting, Scott has scrawled out ‘I think he’s our next bachelor?’ Nodding, the redhead turned to the brunette boy sitting in the corner. “Stiles,” she said curtly. 

His head shot up, eyes wide and terrified. “Would you like to be the next bachelor?” 

A huge grin broke out on his face. Goofy and wide, Stiles smile lit the room. Lydia knew they made the right choice with him. He would be America’s sweetheart.

Jumping out of his seat and pumping his fist, Stiles shouted, “Hell yes! Oh shit, this is gonna be so cool! Wow, I just, thank you guys!” 

Scott laughed and stood up to shake his hand. “Hey, listen, you aren’t the bachelor yet. We have to sign some contracts and negotiate terms with our lawyers. But, in a week or so, you’ll be the next bachelor. I have to go make a phone call, but Lydia can see you to my office. ‘

Smiling apologetically to Lydia, he shut the door, leaving the two alone. Stiles looked up, offering a truce with a small smile that ended up looking like a smirk. Looking away in annoyance, Lydia put everything in her bag hastily. “You were late.”

Confused at her anger, Stiles stepped closer to the table. “I’m sorry, but what? I couldn’t help it?” He just sounded like her father. Excuses, that’s all they could do. Looking up, Lydia unexpectedly met Stiles' eyes, seeing how some dumb girl would get lost in his warm, brown eyes. Swallowing the dry feeling she got in her mouth, Lydia turned away shyly. 

“Whatever, just follow me and stay quiet,” she snapped, walking briskly out of the room. Lydia was not going to let good lucks distract her and woo her. She was not like the thirty girls they had selected. 

Going to the exit, she threw open the doors and walked into the warm sun. The light hit her face, letting her highlight glow. Suddenly, the brown, leather skirt felt like the wrong choice. Lydia felt hot, exposed, and she could almost feel Stiles’ gaze on her ass. Not that she wasn't used to it, living in a male dominated world and work force. However, she was not going to take it from this idiot. 

Whipping around, she raised her green eyes to meet his brown ones and glared. “Listen, Stiles, let’s make something clear here. I hate this show and what it stands for. Scott, the executive producer pretends to like it, but Allison, who films, Kira, our editor, and Derek, our director, all hate it. Just like me. We aren’t going to be nice, but Scott will. We do our job, so just do yours. Don’t try to sugar coat your corny bullshit. I know why you’re here, so don’t push it.” 

Raising an eyebrow, Stiles stepped closer. “So, why am I here?” He was clearly trying to get under her skin. Her fair skin that was blushing red, none the less. 

Curling her top lip in disgust, Lydia pushed him away. “The thought of having thousands of girls fawn over you and having thirty at your disposable to fuck over, is appealing to you. I get it! I really do. If I were a guy, I’d love to have a plethora of hot girls to choose from. But, I am not one of them.”

Smirking, Stiles moved around her, walking quickly away from her. “Lucky for me, I wouldn’t want you to be one of them,” he called in a singsong voice, taunting her.

Huffing angrily, Lydia turned to the right, yelling to him, “Oh and Stiles? Scott’s office is over here.” A groan was heard followed by his loud, clumsy footsteps. 

As she walked across the quad, shaded by the palm trees, she mad sure to move her ass a little more. She heard a small, tight noise come from Stiles. Smiling, Lydia thought to herself, ‘This is going to be a fun season.’


	2. Blooming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! So, I've been terribly sick lately so this chapter is a little late and may not be up to par with what I was hoping it would be. Next chapter will be the first rose ceremony and first meetings. Enjoy :)

It began with the flannels. 

Stiles knew his life was going to be turned upside down with this show, but he didn’t think it would begin this early. And with flannels.

It was a Tuesday and Lydia was sitting in her office reviewing applications. The producers told Stiles they were going to weed out the “jokers” and the girls who weren’t “soft on the eyes” as Lydia put it. After all, it was national television and they couldn’t very well have ugly women on it. Which Lydia vehemently disagreed with, but it was her job called for. 

As she flipped through photo and application after photo and application, she failed to notice Stiles standing timidly in the doorframe. Clearing his throat in order to bring attention to himself, Stiles felt even more out of place. Lydia let one of the Polaroid’s float slowly to the desk, looking up with an annoyed expression written all over her face. “Yes, Stiles?”

Shifting from his position in the doorway to the uncomfortable plastic chair in front of her desk, Stiles tapped his fingers on his knee. A bad habit he’d half to shake, Lydia noted. “Well, I uh- I was wondering when I’d get to be a part of the process?” he questioned.

Pursing her lips, Lydia leaned back. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled up in a loose bun and her wings were faded from all of the times she rubbed her face with her hands in exasperation. She sighed, pushing aside the applications that were a no into the trash. “When you change your outfit,” she stated simply. 

Stiles raised his eyebrows, looking puzzled at her comment. “What’s wrong with my outfit?” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he found himself ashamed of his beat up black converse and faded green flannel. “Oh,” he conceded. 

“Yeah, so, we’re going to have to take you shopping,” Lydia said with a sigh, moving to grab her purse. Her iPhone lit up on her desk, a text from some girl Lydia hadn’t spoken to since high school. 

‘HBD, LYDS!’ the text read, followed by a string of emojis Lydia despised. Reaching for her phone, she saw Stiles take a quick glance at the text. Lydia locked the phone, hoping he didn’t read it. After a moment of awkward silence, Lydia wasn’t sure if he was able to read it or he just chose to ignore it. 

Pushing her chair back abruptly, Lydia shot out and moved past Stiles breezily. Pausing to look back at the startled man in her office, she rolled her eyes and beckoned him with her perfectly manicured hand. “Well, are you coming or not?”

Scrambling out of the chair in his clumsy manner, Stiles shrugged and made a weird face that Lydia wanted to slap. “Um, I don’t really have my wallet with me. So, I uh, I can’t really buy clothes until I find it and –“ Lydia cut him off by grabbing his hand and pulling him behind her. She marched out of her office onto the complex quad to her car.

“We’re paying for it.”

Spluttering, Stiles tried to form another coherent sentence. “No! I mean, I uh, I don’t like owing people and-“ 

Coming to a complete stop, Lydia whipped around, her light blue sundress with white lace on the bottom swirling together as it fluttered in the California wind. “Listen, Stiles, we don’t want the next Bachelor to look like a complete slob. You’re going to need to be rebranded. This grungy, high school boy look is going to have to go. You’re a twenty-eight year old male who is looking for a wife. It’s time to make you look like that.” 

Nodding to show that he agreed, Stiles walked around her in the general direction of the parking lot. Trying to hold back laugher, Lydia called out, “Stiles, the production parking lot is this way.”

Stopping in his place, Stiles pursed his lips, and sighed as he idiocy. As usual, Lydia was right.

 

 

Two hours. Lydia had been waiting two hours.

How long did it take a twenty eight year old boy – no, not boy – man to find a few pairs of khakis and nice jeans as well as a Henley or two. They didn’t need to make him look stunning; they would have clothes on set. This was for his transformation into the Bachelor.

What Stiles didn’t get, is that he was now playing a role. He was no longer Stiles, detective for the California Intelligence Agency. He was Stiles, adorkable, sweet, caring, forgiving. He was America’s sweetheart. He was The Bachelor. 

Lydia clicked her heels together, biting her lip before deciding upon knocking on the dressing room door. Striding forward indigently, Lydia rapped on the smooth wood surface, impatient with how long it was taking him to try on this stupid outfit. 

“Stiles, you have approximately five seconds to get your ass out here. I have a very strict eating schedule and if we don’t make it to lunch by three I will –“

This time it was Lydia being cut off by the swooshing sound of Stiles flinging the door open. He stood before her, towering over her petite figure. The grey baseball shirt was hugging his biceps, outlining every nerve and muscle. Lydia felt her mouth go dry. 

Swallowing thickly, Lydia felt her face lose all expression. “You look… you look nice. Change, and we can go,” she croaked. 

Turning away from Stiles, Lydia walked slowly to her purse. “I think I’m gonna keep this outfit on,” she heard him say in a content tone.

“Deep breaths, Lydia,” she reminded herself. “Deep breaths.” Lydia repeated the mantra as she walked behind Stiles, his ass in her face in the new black jeans. 

As they arrived at the fancy French restaurant Lydia liked to refer to as her favorite, she heard Stiles scoff. Turning to face him, Lydia saw he was biting back a laugh. “What? This place is amazing,” she snapped.

Smiling as he tried to keep himself together, Stiles raised his eyebrows quickly before looking away. A note of his laugh fell out and Lydia was going to slap him. “What!”

“It’s just… Can I take you to somewhere I like to eat?” Stiles offered as well as a weak grin. Scratching his head nervously while Lydia considered it, Stiles tried to find a hint of emotion in her green eyes. 

“Fine,” Lydia said, turning around as her hair grazed his face. He caught a whiff of peppermint shampoo, and Stiles found the breath knocked out of him. Ignoring the familiar scent, he caught up to her. 

Walking ahead of her and turning to face her, Stiles found Lydia’s gaze meet his. “Okay, so, this place is really funky but God, the tacos are amazing. And the guacamole is beyond celestial,” he raved, throwing his head back at the though of the glorious food.

Scoffing, Lydia halted. “You’re taking me to a Mexican restaurant?”

Stiles nodded, reaching for her tiny wrist to pull her ahead, further into the city and further from her comfort zone. 

 

“So your favorite movie is Clueless? That’s what you’d choose? Not Citizen Kane or Gone With The Wind?” Stiles asked in disbelief, a piece of chicken falling from his half eaten taco, which was frozen in the air by the shock of Lydia’s answer.

“Yes, Stiles, Clueless is my favorite movie. And Citizen Kane is severely overrated, the plot is too hasty and Gone With The Wind is too cliché for a favorite movie. I mean Vivien Lee was amazing in it and it’s actually quite feminist. But, if I say that’s my favorite movie, I seem cliché and uneducated,” she said simply, wiping her hands on the napkin sitting in her lap. She had finished all of her fish tacos before Stiles could even get through his first one.

Screwing his face up to show his disgust, Stiles pushed further, “But Clueless isn’t?”

Nodding her head as she pondered his point, Lydia leaned forward to rest her head in her hands. “Well, I don’t know, as a teenager I always loved it and I feel like it’s much deeper than thought. Also, Cher is a fashion icon. But, how about you? What’s yours?”

Stiles blinked back in surprise, obviously not having thought of the answer to his own question. He paused before finally replying. “American Beauty.” He bit into his taco, the crunch filling Lydia’s ear.

“Good movie,” she said. 

Raising one eyebrow, Stiles set down the last taco he was about to dive into. “No criticism?” he teased. 

“None,” Lydia assured, smiling. The first one of the day. Or the past two weeks, in fact. 

The waiter showed up as Stiles was about to begin his spiel on the stunning cinematography and the significance of Lester’s death to the American dream. “Are you ready for the check?” he asked pleasantly, as all waiters do.

“Yes, we are,” Stiles replied, smiling. As the waiter pulled out the receipt, Stiles grabbed it before Lydia could. 

“No.”

Smirking, Stiles slipped his card into the black folder. “My dear friend, Lydia Martin. This is your birthday present.”

Anger flashed across her face, Lydia pursing her pink painted lips. “We’re not friends. And don’t tell anyone, please,” she begged quietly. Her expression changed from annoyance to a pleading one. Stiles shook his head, letting her know he would keep quiet.

As the waiter came back and they agreed on a tip, 15% of course, Lydia and Stiles walked slowly back to the car. Silent, the entire way, Lydia began to think about the afternoon. She decided Stiles wasn’t that bad after all. He did have good taste in food. 

They arrived back at the office and spent the rest of the day picking and choosing potential contestants, which Stiles allowed Lydia to make fun of a few. Of course, he stood by them and defended even the most vapid of them all. He felt her demeanor change that afternoon. He wouldn’t call them friends, but Stiles could now say she at least tolerated him. 

Slowly, the sun fell and the quad where they were sitting eating pizza with Scott turned into a pink hue. The boys had finished off two pizzas, while narrowing down the list of girls to two hundred. Lydia sat silently, refusing to eat due to her dinner plans. Stiles knew they were for her birthday, Scott thought she just had plans.

In the pink light, Lydia’s blue dress faded to purple, swaying in the wind as she stood up. “I have to go guys, but I’ll see you tomorrow?” Lydia offered.

Scott raised a hand, flipping through more applicants. “See ya, Lyds!” he called happily.

Stiles smiled and waved sheepishly. As she walked away from the duo, Lydia smiled small and bashfully, thinking of her lunch with the new Bachelor. And like clockwork, he was behind her. 

Tapping her shoulder, Stiles stood anxiously, shifting side to side. Lydia cocked her head to the side. “What’s up?” she questioned. 

“I wanted to give you a present,” he said, as he thrusted a small box into her hands. “It’s also a thank you, for giving me this opportunity. So happy birthday, Lyds. Can I call you that yet?” 

Lydia’s lips turned upwards, touched by his kindness. “Maybe next week. Thank you, Stiles.” The two nodded in acknowledgement at each other, before going their separate ways. Pausing, Lydia called out, “Hey, Stiles.”

“Yeah?” His face was lit up, happy just to be here with her and Scott.

“My favorite movie is actually Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I don’t like to tell people, because it’s so cliché. But, yeah,” she confessed.

Stiles laughed, turning to go join Scott. His easy jog resonated in her, opening up a familiarity she wasn’t ready to address. She walked to her car, turning the box over in her hand as she pondered what today meant for the show and for her.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, Lydia tore open the pink box with white ribbon. Inside, a photo of the one girl they immediately discarded, as her entire application relied on her job as yoga instructor. On the back, Stiles had written, ‘You get five more minutes alone with Daisy to make fun of her. Happy twenty sixth, Lydia.’ 

Her tongue slipped through her teeth, grinning at the joke. Maybe Stiles was more than just a boy in a flannel. Maybe, just maybe, he was her friend.


End file.
